


Good Stars and Beskar

by justplummy, Valerin Berenghar (Valerin)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Co-Written, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:08:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25121410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justplummy/pseuds/justplummy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valerin/pseuds/Valerin%20Berenghar
Summary: Jate'kara: luck, destiny. Literally meaning "good stars." A course to steer by.He was a bounty hunter. She was the last of her kind. Whether by circumstance or by fate, they were drawn to one another.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Izaria, Din Djarin/Original Female Character(s), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21





	1. PROLOGUE | The Gift of Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is part ONE of a three part prologue set approximately twenty years before the start of the series. :')

It was so dry that even the cacti had begun to curl into themselves out of fear, spindly limbs threatening to fall away with every howling breeze. Gil watched as the last of the greenery – if it could have even been called that in the first place – in the scrapyard shuddered, assaulted by the very same sand that he was ever-continually sweeping away from the threshold of the shop. The weathered wood felt especially abrasive against the cracks in his hands, as bloody now as the cracks that had formed at the corners of his mouth, but he kept sweeping.

_Back and forth. Back and forth._

Nearly eight moons had waxed and waned since Ubiri had seen rain, an exceptionally long time even for such an arid planet. It was the longest drought he could remember in years, and some of the townsfolk were starting to agree that it was perhaps the longest in many centuries. While no one enjoyed the prospect of wondering how they’d keep themselves withering in the heat, Gil knew all of the cantina dwellers secretly revelled in the opportunity to argue about how best to weather the crisis.

Some were devising a (fruitless) plan to draw meteorites into the atmosphere to farm them for their water. Others were trying to figure out how they could harvest it from the storage humps that many of the fauna that roamed the cavernous canyons on the horizon boasted. Most, however, squabbled about nothing at all, staring into their grog and burping. Though they had endured many hardships over the years, the clientele in that cantina hadn’t changed a bit since Gil had made Ubiri his home.

He’d been just nineteen years old when he’d come into possession of his grandfather’s old scrapyard, only having narrowly avoided the entirety of the land being razed after paying off all of his grandfather’s remaining offworld debt. The junk that remained was just that – junk – but Gil managed to make something of a name for himself in salvaging and repurposing parts for the many ships that came through their humble port. For the next three decades, he’d survived every dust storm, dodged every wrench thrown his way, and even managed to avoid being violently slaughtered when there was a malfunction in a rogue droid’s programming.

It was never himself he was worried about—hell, he was barely even worried about the leathery sods that kept the barstools warm down at the cantina. They were all tough enough to take a beating from the sun every now and again.

His baby girl, though? Gil wasn’t as sure about that.

He propped himself against the smooth limestone archway, calluses catching against the grooves of the broom’s handle as they slid up to rest at the top. Looking out across the yard, Gil could only just make out the patterns his daughter drew in the sand. Sprawled out on her belly, she kicked her bare feet in the air as she sang to herself, no doubt imagining a grand tale for whatever figure she traced into the desert below. The antenna in her grasp wobbled precariously with every swipe of her fist, its top half dangling at an awkward angle, but it never even seemed to faze Izaria as she continued her lullaby.

It was a routine Gil understood better than breathing. As soon as a traveler wandered into the scrapyard, Iz was on them like a Jawa, picking them over with all the questions that brilliant little mind of hers could muster. Then, as soon as they’d gone, she’d etch their face into the sand, memorializing it for the evening as she dreamed aloud about where they’d come from and where they were going next. Gil wondered just how many nights he’d drifted off to sleep to the sound of her recounting her imaginings to her stuffed Nerf, just as he wondered how many nights he’d laid awake, plagued by the knowledge that she was the only child for fifteen clicks.

What kind of life could a child as bright as her possibly hope to have, stranded in the desert with only a sorry old sleemo like him for company?

Peeking out from beneath a head full of silvery blonde hair, the tips of her pointed ears hung low, nearly transparent in the afternoon sun’s light. Bright threads of blue wove their way back beneath her curls, the delicate veins a stark contrast to where her tender skin was beginning to turn an angry shade of red.

“Izzy,” he called. The antenna continued to wiggle in the air for a beat after she’d stopped to listen. “It’s getting late. Why don’t you come inside and wash up for supper?”

“I’m not hungry, Papa, thank you.”

It was difficult to be frustrated when her refusals were always so polite, but Gil huffed anyways. The antenna resumed its squirming as she continued to draw looping circles – a trail of smoke lofting from a ship’s engine, perhaps?

“Iz. It’s not really a suggestion.”

“But I—”

“No buts. The sand’ll still be there when we’re finished.” It always was. “Come on.”

Her little shoulders fell, and for a moment, Gil wondered if it was going to be one of those evenings. He wasn't sure he even had the energy to endure the rest of the night if she was in a good mood, nevermind if she spent it whining and sulking. Much to his relief, however, she scrambled to her knees, swiping her foot out in practiced motions to draw a border around her carefully laid out battle scene.

“Don’t touch my drawing, okay, Papa? It’s not finished.”

“Promise. Now scram, kid. And wash behind your ears, too.”

She smiled a toothy grin and skipped all the way up to him, sticking her tongue into the gummy gap between her canines before weaving her way between his legs and inside.

He propped the broom against the wall and padded out into the yard to scan the piles of scrap for the body of an old droid unit he’d remembered seeing a few weeks back. The sound of water running through the pump was loud enough that it echoed off the tile inside, carrying out the door and through the pervasive silence of the dunes. Without even thinking, Gil began to count as he hummed, each beat punctuated by a whistle.

_One. Two. Three. Four…_

Izaria had a vague understanding of why she wasn’t allowed to run the water for more than five seconds, but she was too young to really understand the consequences of waste. Gil seemed to understand them better with every passing day, however, as he watched the gauges in his well sink lower and lower. At the start of the dry season, he’d had enough water stored to last for six months, a generous estimate that he’d come short on every year previously.

This year, however… he was skeptical he’d even squeak out ten despite his strict rationing.

He’d been doing his best to barter for what little water the few stragglers that made their way into the starport could provide, but even then, it wasn’t enough. He still had to take credits, too, weighing the balance each time he didn’t; after all, water wasn’t going to buy them bread or put new clothes on Izaria’s back. Most parents weren’t exactly grateful that their kids weren’t doing much growing, but when times were hard, Gil was a touch glad that Iz had stayed small for her age.

The rush of flowing water had stopped before he’d ever reached the fifth count, giving way to the clatter of little feet. Her giggles seemed to permeate time itself, so high and wonderful. He knew without a doubt that when he ducked under the low stoop he’d find her swinging from the exposed beams that ran from one side of the room to the other, hair hung wildly from her head as she shrieked just to hear the sound of her own voice answer her in the silence.

“Paaaaapaaaaaaaa.”

Gil grunted as he pried a sheet of dented metal out of the clutches of the sand, digging beneath it with his free hand to see if he could pull the exposed motherboard out from the belly of a derelict droid.

“Paaaaaapaaaaaa!”

He was certain he’d broken a nail or two in the process, but he emerged from the wreckage and headed back into the house with the tech in tow, blowing dust and grit out from the wiring as he went.

“Paaaaaaaaaapa!” Izaria cried urgently, clearly perturbed by his non-answer.

“Izzy!” He warned as he stepped into the house, instantly greeted by the cool embrace of shadow. “Patience! I heard you the first three times.”

He’d been correct; she waited for him on the ceiling, dangling like a cave crawler with her legs propped over the beam and her hands stretched towards the ground.

“A ship is coming.”

Buried beneath the ground without a window to spare, he’d always wondered how Izaria could tell even from inside the hovel that they’d soon be joined by another stranger. When she was younger, he’d chalked it up to ruthless childhood optimism, but now she was big—big enough to understand the difference between wishful thinking and reality.

Gil’s mouth pressed into a thin line as he poked his head back out the door, squinting momentarily against the sunlight. Sure enough, a ship had dropped through the atmosphere, sinking slowly towards the shipyard half a klick away.

“Do you think this one will look like me?”

She always asked the same question.

“Maybe.”

He always gave her the same answer.

“Well, come on! Let’s go see!”

“But Iz, you just washed your face for—” She hadn’t waited for his permission, clambering down from her perch before bolting outside. With a sigh, Gil followed her, too charmed by her tenacity to be cross for very long. She fit her feet into the slots he’d carved for her in the old clay wall that surrounded his compound, hanging wildly over the edge as she waited to see what kind of stranger they’d meet today.

It wasn’t often they had visitors. Where Gil was always hesitant to let his daughter pester strangers too much with her questions – _where are you going next? What’s that thing hanging off your belt? Why is your face so green? Do you know why we have two suns?_ – he never begrudged her the chance to at least introduce herself. It would serve her better, he figured, to have no fear of strangers. He only worried that sometimes Izaria wasn’t fearful _enough_. 

Between the clay walls that surrounded their home and the field of scrap before them, there was a small pause in the mess – a narrow field where the shrubbery had once covered the entire ground. Since the drought it had been reduced to nothing but a bare patch of sunbaked earth. The folks back at the cantina had always complained about how the scrapyard was the first thing the travelers saw from the shipyard, but their meager settlement wasn’t exactly what one might call a _lush_ tourist attraction. 

People stopped for two things, to get their ship fixed or to get their ship refueled. As it turned out, a scrapyard came in pretty handy when dealing with the former.

They could complain all they liked about the unsightliness of the jagged path that led down to his shop, pointing their fingers over who was to blame about the pools of molten plastic that lined the way. But that was all they could do, and it was all they had ever done, so Gil had never bothered to fix it. 

He was glad he hadn’t once he begun to make out the figure making his way over the horizon. 

If the armor was anything to go by, he was a Mandalorian… and a skittish one at that. They planted themselves not but a stone’s throw away, just close enough that Gil felt his heart leap into his chest as Izaria gasped in awe.

Slowly, carefully, the Mandalorian raised their hands to reveal a pair of stuncuffs locked around their wrists.

“Think you can help with these?”

Without speaking, Gil hauled Izaria down to his side, fist wrapped in the back of her linen shirt. She was sticky with sweat when he put a hand on her shoulder to pull her behind him, his thumb pressed into the hollow of her neck as a reminder to obey. He could feel her pulse thrumming wildly against his fingers. It was a perfect mirror of his own, though he suspected for entirely different reasons. 

He didn’t carry a blaster anymore, and he hadn’t since Izaria had come into his life, but instinct still drew his hand towards his hip. His pointer finger itched for a trigger that wasn’t there. His training was instinct, but the love he had for his daughter ran deeper. He couldn’t stand the idea of her ever finding a weapon she wasn’t supposed to, but in moments like this, he had the sense to regret he had nothing to protect her with. Not like she deserved. 

Gil had met plenty of Mandalorians-- their presence was inevitable, on a planet so desolate as Ubiri-- but not enough to claim to know their mannerisms well. He knew that they were violent. He knew that they were ruthless. He knew that their culture, fading as fast as it was, clung to them dearly. Their warrior mentality was a perfect breeding ground for bounty hunters and mercenaries, as though the galaxy needed any more of that filth. 

If Gil understood anyone, though, it was a warrior. 

He understood that the Mandalorian likely felt more like a cornered animal than he ever had in his life, standing there in front of two strangers, bound and isolated on a planet he didn’t know. Gil’s eyes scraped over the Mandalorian’s sides, searching for weapons; blasters were like roaches, where there was one, there was always more. It was the first rule of gun ownership, short of not looking down the barrel. 

His grip never loosened on Izaria’s shoulder, even as she squirmed in the dirt beside him. The wall was likely blocking her view and he knew it wouldn’t be long before she’d wriggled herself out of his grasp entirely to get a better look at the traveler. Somehow, he got the impression that it would be a mistake to let even a child go bounding up to this stranger. 

“Depending on the model, might even be able to give ‘em back to you in one piece.” 

“I don’t need them back in one piece.” 

Gil knew he’d waited too long for the silence that had stretched between them to be comfortable, but he did his best not to appear threatening. His muscles ached as they shifted beneath his shirt, his shoulders rolling back as a stern reminder to himself to maintain control. It would have been easy to brush the Mandalorian off and send him packing for the cantina-- surely one of those old gas-bags would have had some tricks up their sleeves-- but he didn’t want to risk the stranger’s ire. 

So, instead, he gestured for the Mandalorian to follow with a backwards nod of his head, steering Izaria back towards the shop with a firm hand. 

“Papa, I want to—”

“I don’t think today is the best day.” 

“But I—” 

“No buts.” He echoed himself coolly, guiding her even as she tried to turn back over her shoulder. “Supper’s almost ready. Why don’t you go inside and wait for me? I’ll come get you when we’ve finished up.” 

“I can’t even watch?” 

“Iz.”

“I’ve never even seen you take uh—those thingies off, Papa. And I’ve never met a man with a metal head.” 

Gil stopped, raising a hand to his face with a sigh. He’d put Izaria in plenty of precarious situations before-- never on purpose, of course, but that was the nature of living on a forgotten, backwater planet. His stomach churned, even as she looked up at him with those great big eyes. One green, one blue, it was like looking into the ocean, and it was a sight even on a desert planet as sad as Ubiri. 

“If it’s all the same to you, Mando,” Gil turned over his shoulder. “The kid has some questions for you.” 

It was worth it to ask, just to watch her grin like a mad little fool and in the corner of his eye, he saw the Mandalorian jut his chin up; not quite a nod but maybe a vague affirmation of sorts. Izaria danced in place before skipping inside, no doubt to grab his toolbox for him. They’d done this exact song and dance countless times, their routine for the unusual worked out precisely between the two of them; she would grab his toolbox, and he would handle the small talk. Gil had figured out pretty quickly things tended to go a little easier for him that way. 

“She’s just four, though. So mind your language. If you don’t want to answer, she’ll understand if you tell her as much. Smart little thing, my Izzy.” 

The Mandalorian nodded without sparing a word and for a brief moment, Gil was confident that their gazes locked. Before the silence could grow stale between them once more, the sound of rushed footsteps returned to them and Izaria returned with her arms full of the rattling toolbox, its swift handling no doubt earning the thing another dent. 

It clanged noisily, sparing both adults any more conversation as Gil lead them under the threshold. He made a motion to remind the Mandalorian to duck, knowing full well how poor visibility could be in those helmets. He gestured to a seat at the table, set now for their supper, pushing the plates out of the way with one broad sweep of his arm before relieving Izaria of the weight of his toolbox. 

The Mandalorian sat, albeit after a moment of hesitation. Gil reached for the cuffs, pulling them into the light so he could work out the mechanisms. 

“If you’re sure you don’t want me to save ‘em, these’ll cut clean enough at the joint. It’ll take some more work to get them off your wrists, but you’ll be more comfortable if I can at least get your arms separated.” 

The Mandalorian hummed in agreement. 

Gil plucked a small torch out of the box after a moment of searching, struggling to get the thing to light. All the while, Izaria bobbed next to him, peeking beneath his arms while she tried, no doubt, to muster the courage to speak to the stranger.

“You wanted to ask something, kid.” 

“Why do you--” she sputtered as she slipped off of the stool she scrambled to climb up onto, regaining her footing with surprising ease. “Why do you have those thingies on? And what are they called?” 

There was dirt beneath her fingernails. Gil sighed; there was _always_ dirt beneath her fingernails. It was like she’d been born with sand in her hair and oil on her face. She pointed like it had never bothered her, like it had never occurred to her that a stranger might think she wasn’t well loved. At least Gil knew she always washed behind her ears. 

“I got in some trouble.” It was a short, curt reply and in the moment after, there was almost an air of suspense that the Mandalorian would continue, but he didn’t. Gil looked between the two, gaze passing from the quiet figure and onward to Izzy, hoping that this conversation wouldn’t leave her with more questions than he could answer after the stranger had gone. 

“But what are they called?” 

“Stuncuffs,” Gil answered for the Mandalorian. 

“What do they do?” 

“What does it look like they do?” Gil said, tongue sliding between his teeth as he tried to concentrate. One jolt of his wrist and he’d burn the Mandalorian, or worse, set off the _stun_ function and teach Izaria a lesson about electricity a little too literally.

“What kind of trouble did you get in?” 

The stool she sat on wobbled obnoxiously with her as she rocked, scraping across the tile with every little wriggle. 

“The bad kind.”

“Sometimes when I get in trouble my Papa makes me sort space junk by color.” 

Gil huffed out a laugh. That much was certainly true. 

“Who put the uh… the stuncuffs on you?” 

“Someone I thought wouldn’t put them on.”

It seemed that Izaria had all too readily met her match; usually, travelers would humor her, providing her with enough fodder to keep her up past her bedtime wondering for weeks to come. Gil still saw the memory of flame in his vision when the torch went out, but even despite it, the crease in her brow was obvious. The Mandalorian was frustrating her. As keen as Gil was to keep her out of trouble, it was as good of a time as any to let her figure out the way of things for herself. 

“Why didn’t you think they’d put the stuncuffs on you? Were you friends? Did you like them?” 

“Iz.” Gil warned. He could feel the way the stranger flexed beneath the cuffs at the question, as though it bothered him worse than the heat of the metal around his wrists. 

“I just wanted to know…” 

The Mandalorian remained quiet.

“What’s it like, having a metal head?” 

Gil shot her another look as the cuffs finally parted, metal finally made weak enough to split unevenly. With a gentle pull, they gave, and the Mandalorian had free use of his arms. Somehow, the idea of it made him even more wary. He was of a mind to pull his toolbox free of the stranger’s reach, but thought it too insulting a suggestion. Instead he began rooting around for a pair of pliers. 

“I’ll need to disable the tech, or they’ll shock you good if I pry them off now. That’ll take the longest.” 

An unspoken question passed between them then as Gil’s eyes darted between the Mandalorian and the girl; _do you want me to send her away?_

The Mandalorian averted his gaze and perhaps that served enough of a reply – he was a master of almost answers. Not quite a yes, not quite a no. Gil simply quirked a brow and continued with his work. 

Izaria, however, loomed over the Mandalorian’s shoulder like a specter, still waiting expectantly for an answer. 

“You don’t sound like a droid, you know.” 

“I’m not a droid.” 

“Then why do you have a metal head?” 

“It’s a helmet, Iz, and you’re foggin’ it up, breathing in his personal space. Sit down, would you? Like a lady? Please?” Gil sighed. It was a conversation they’d had countless times. He was worried if he didn’t nip it in the bud soon, she’d sit like a little gremlin for the rest of her life, palms pressed flat between her feet with her knees all jammed up beneath her arms. 

He’d all but returned to prying the wires apart, slow, careful work that it was, when he realized what she was about to ask and stopped. 

“Do you look like me? Under your helmet?”

Gil’s heart fluttered uselessly in his chest. He hoped the Mandalorian had the sense not to be cruel in his answer.

“Not the last time I checked.”

Izaria snorted like it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard, feet slipping out from under her as she settled, at last, onto her haunches. Gil couldn’t help but smile to himself at the sound. Mandalorian guest or no, he still loved to hear her laugh. 

“I’ve never met anybody who looked like me, you know. But I’ve never met anybody with a metal head, either. Is it lonely, being the only man with a metal head?” 

“Sometimes.”

It was perhaps a more honest answer than Gil had expected, but he made no indication of it as he retrieved the last of the wiring from inside the metal casing. He turned the Mandalorian’s arm over slowly in his grasp, inspecting the cuffs for any weak points. It didn’t look like they had been cast by hand, rather mass produced— it would make breaking into them short work, and the sooner he could get this stranger out of his daughter’s clutches, the better. 

“Do you leave your metal head on all the time? Or do you put your other one on too? Where do you keep it when you don’t use it?” 

“I leave it on all the time.” 

Someone had once said that children couldn’t comprehend irony and sarcasm until the age of ten and perhaps, Gil thought, there was some truth to it given the way Izzy’s eyes lit up. He understood that it was little more than a dry joke – perhaps dryer than the desert outside – and if he knew his Izzy, she would be raving about the man with the metal head for a long time to come. The last traveler she had spoken wildly about had been the woman with the loth-cats, a story that’d been retold over supper more times than he could count. 

“Even when you eat?” She said, eyes wide like it was the wildest thing she’d ever heard. “Even when you sleep?!” 

The Mandalorian hummed.

“When I grow up _I_ want to have a metal head. Except mine will be purple. And I’ll put shinies on it, so it will sparkle. My metal head will be cooler than yours.”

“Izzy,” Gil chuckled. “Mind your manners.” 

“I’m just saaaaayin’~” She sang. 

The trio sat in silence as Gil worked a pair of pliers between the Mandalorian’s wrist and the wide band of the cuff. Retrieving the blowtorch, he grit his teeth before warning: “Stay still. It’ll get hot, but it’ll go quicker if you don’t squirm. Can’t promise it won’t burn you, but it’s better than the alternative.” 

“I’ll live.” 

“We’ve got bacta spray!” Izaria chimed helpfully, though he wished she hadn’t.

“And we have bacta spray. If you need it.”

Without another moment’s hesitation, Gil lit the torch over the pliers, the clamp turning red hot. Just before he was sure he’d melt a hole clean through the Mandalorian’s sleeve, the cuff gave, bending away without fanfare. With a tug, it fell clean away, dropping to the table with a distinct _clang._

“Sure you can handle a second round of that?” Gil picked up the cuff, turning it over in his hand. 

The Mandalorian nodded curtly in reply as he pulled back his free hand, gently shaking it as the cuffs had been tight enough to restrict the blood flow. 

“Can I hold the—” 

“Don’t even try it, Iz.” Gil looked back to the Mandalorian. “She has a bit of an arsonist streak. Ask her about that time she nearly lit the couch on fire.” 

“I just wanted to see what it would look like! Some fire is blue and some is orange!” 

“Needless to say, she isn’t allowed to play with the blowtorch anymore.” 

It had probably been a bad move on his behalf to allow her any time with it at all, but he’d never exactly been given a handbook on parenthood. 

Prying the second cuff away was easier; all of the casing had been on the other side, and without center support, it practically been robbed of its integrity. This time, the metal split with a decisive _crack_ , sickening and quick like the snapping of bone and sinew. Gil sat back to admire his handiwork, a single bead of sweat rolling down the back of his neck. 

He hadn’t realized he’d been trembling until he heard the way the toolbox rattled under his elbow. 

“Shame you didn’t want to keep ‘em.” He admitted. “But I think they’d have been useless to you before the year was up, if they were that easy to get’cha out of.” 

“Probably,” the Mandalorian muttered as he reached for his newly freed wrist, squeezing it, “thank you.”

Izaria seemed particularly defeated by how little time had passed, and for his part, Gil couldn’t say he was sorry. There would be other travelers, kinder ones, less dangerous ones, who he would gladly invite for a cup of caf and a chat, but somehow he sensed this stranger wasn’t the type to stay in any place for longer than he had to. 

“What do I owe you?” 

Any other day, Gil would have told him nothing. Let him walk, knowing that maybe the favor would have come back for him when he really needed it someday. But looking at Izaria, at the dirt beneath her fingernails, at the bags beneath her eyes and the cracks that were beginning to form on her lips… he couldn’t turn the Mandalorian away without asking: “Do you have any water?” 

The Mandalorian cocked his head slightly to the side as if it was the strangest request he’d heard. His answer delayed a beat before he said, “I have it back at the ship, I can go and get it.” 

“Nonsense,” Gil said easily, refusing to betray his distrust. “We’ll help you.” 

Izaria was all too giddy to have a chance to explore outside the walls of their little home, zipping ahead of the men as they walked in silence. She left a perfect zig-zag trail for them to follow, some strides longer than others where she had clearly slid as a result of her zeal. By the time they’d caught up to her, she’d already found the Mandalorian’s ship, planted beneath the ramp as she waited for permission to enter. 

It was a gunship; an old one – certainly from before the fall of the Republic. There were orange markings on the hull, symbols Gil didn’t recognize but then again, the galaxy had changed drastically over the last decades; two governments had fallen and from the ashes, something new had taken risen between one breath and the next – nations, alliances, unions. The only word they got from the world outside Ubiri was through the crackling radio channel or through the tales from strangers passing through. 

He watched how the Mandalorian tapped something – a button perhaps – on his gauntlet and in the next, the cargo ramp began lowering. Sure enough, Iz scrambled out of the way, dancing around on the hot tarmac. 

The view from the ramp was calamitous, the scattered remains of the toolbox an indication of the the Mandalorian’s effort to free himself on his own. How he had managed to fly a ship like this with his hands restrained was unfathomable to Gil, but if Mandalorians could be accused of anything, it was their tenacity.

Though Izaria had stepped up onto the ramp – no doubt to offer her feet some relief from the radiant heat of the ground below – she waited patiently for further instructions, hands clasped behind her back. Gil ruffled her hair with one hand as they drew up behind her. 

“Hope you brought your muscles, kid.” 

The Mandalorian stepped over the clutter of tools, pushing a set of clamps out of his way with his boot before he walked up to what looked like a storage compartment. He thumbed a close-lying control panel and its doors opened with a hiss. Even though the Mandalorian's bulk shielded most of the containers from view, the outline of the plastic dunks filled with water was unmistakable. 

The Mandalorian heaved the first jug over his shoulder and pushed it toward them, allowing it to slide through the scattered mess of metal. “You can have it all,” he said as he was already reaching for the next dunk, heaving it across the newly-cleared path. The same fate befell the third and final jug before the Mandalorian turned to face them again. 

“Don’t you need some for yourself?” Gil asked, disbelief written plain on his face. “You won’t find any in this system. Seems we aren’t the only ones dealing with a drought.” 

“I’ll be fine.” 

“Papa,” Iz whined as she struggled to wrap her hands around the container. “I can only get one.” 

“‘S fine kid, Papa can handle the rest,” he said softly. “I—this is more than I could have asked for, though. Thank you. Truly.” 

True to form, the Mandalorian offered them little more than a conciliatory nod. Whether it was kindness or just an inherent desire to rid himself of the strangers’ company, Gil didn’t know, but he wasn’t going to question it. He’d learned more than enough lessons in his lifetime; he was more than happy to just take what he was given and let it be what it was. 

When Gil had gathered what he could, he ushered Izaria out of the ship, tapping the side of his foot against the back of her calf to spur her on. Before he left, however, he felt compelled to stop, turning over his shoulder. Gaze trained on the sharp, unrelenting cut of the Mandalorian’s visor, he nodded his head once respectfully. 

“Jate’kara, Mandalorian.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there it is! Chapter one of what my amazing co-writer, Val, and I hope will be a multi-fic series. What originally started out as a roleplay quickly blossomed into something much more, and we loved writing together so much that we wanted to share our work with you. We've got a few more chapters ready to go, edits pending, but in the meantime, why don't you give my amazing partner in crime ALL THE LOVE IN THE WORLD.


	2. PROLOGUE | A Night of Celebration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is part TWO of a three part prologue set approximately FIVE years before the start of the series.

They hadn’t made the galaxy a better place today. Not that it mattered– at least not if one looked at Xi’an.

She danced like the shadow of a hard day’s work didn’t haunt her, body twisting along to the reedy song from the band at the other end of the cantina. She owned the floor with a confidence that only five shots of tequila could provide.

They’d been pulling odd jobs for months now; running protection for the most bizarre clientele and transported just about every blacklisted goods there were and in that time, they had managed to establish something of a winning concept. Reputation was everything when dealing with underground gigs and they’d quickly made something of a name for themselves. 

If it wasn’t for the way she stumbled into a chair on her way over to him, he may not have noticed her. The intent was practically gleaming in her eyes and perhaps she’d caught him looking at her when she’d been out on the dance floor—

 _— damn_.

Din shifted in his seat, turning to face the bar counter and then she was just _there_ , in his space, arms coming to embrace him from behind. He instantly stiffened before rolling his shoulders in an attempt to free himself of her, but she was like a fucking _leech_. She leaned in close enough to rest her cheek against the side of the helmet. “You look gloomy.”

He sighed, tilting his head away from her. Squaring his shoulders, he jammed an elbow back at her, not hard-- just enough for her to get the message.

Xi’an bubbled out a laugh and then she was gone, only to appear on the barstool next to him with that wicked smile of hers that lit up everything on her face. “You’re moody today, aren’t you?”

Then she leaned in again, stretching herself across the counter. Her hand settled across his arm, the bruised skin on her knuckles stretched as she gripped him tightly. Her eyes were wide and intense, as was everything else about her. 

“What’s the matter, loth-cat got your tongue?” Her voice was ironically sweet. 

He couldn’t help but wonder if she’d always been this way. Not annoying, but fucked up. Anyone could be vexing-- whoever wasn’t was probably chiseled by the maker themselves-- but Xi’an was deranged at best and batshit crazy at worst. 

It was as if she only came with two settings, rough, and _rougher_ , and nothing was ever enough. 

There wasn’t a job that could give her enough of a high; there wasn’t a night that could satisfy her and there wasn’t a slap or smack to the face that was hard enough even as the skin broke and blood poured free. 

“I think I know what you’re upset about,” Xi’an continued and then she was leaning in even closer, nails digging into his arm, her voice lowering, “but you shouldn’t be upset, they _deserved_ it.”

Din yanked his arm away. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

Xi’an snickered. “See, was that hard? You can speak—you only need to unwind a little,” she leaned back and tapped her palm twice on the bar counter, already turning to the closest bartend. “We need another bottle here!”

Hidden behind a curtain of silvery hair, the only indication that the bartender had even heard them was the flicker of her pierced ear. It was pointed low, drooping beneath the weight of the curls gathered around it. 

“I can get your friend a drink,” she said without even looking up from the credits she was counting. “But you’re done for the night.” 

“Bring it then,” Xi’an said, motioning with her hand for the bartender to hurry. 

The bartender looked up at them then, but instead of Xi’an, her gaze was trained on him. In the hazy light, it was difficult to tell if her eyes were one color or another, shifting continually with each pass of a neon probe behind him. “Never had a Mandalorian order tequila before.” 

“Just do it,” Xi’an grit out, patience clearly waning. 

With a shrug, the bartender plucked a bottle off the shelf, flicking the cap away with a thumb and forefinger. When Xi’an reached for it, leaning greedily over the countertop, the silver-haired woman pulled it away. “I said you’ve had enough.” She was curt, a little too calm, and definitely too smug as she planted a straw into the neck of the bottle and slid it Din’s way. 

The bottle met the palm of his hand perfectly, even despite the gloves the cool of the bottle pierced through. Xi’an was already reaching out, her hand coming to cup his and when she tried to move the bottle closer to herself, his grip tightened. “Thought this one was for me.”

Xi’an huffed a laugh, devilish smile growing impossibly brighter as she pulled her hand away and for a second, it looked like she was about to leave--rising from the chair but instead of turning on her heel, she ducked under his arm and slithered her way into his lap. 

Din sucked in a frustrated breath, mind already geared and ready to let her get a closer look at the—

—she reached for his face. He leaned back just the slightest, but it was hardly an effort and in no time, her fingers were curled around the edge of the helmet, stopping him from pulling away. His hand immediately reached for hers, hindering her from doing anything else, but the intent wasn’t there– her grip wasn’t particularly determined, it was just _there_.

“You must be thirsty,” Xi’an said and it was almost as if the lazy lilt of her voice matched her grip on his helm. The tips of her fingers brushed against the seal that ran just below his jawline, her touch electric. His heart jolted in his chest as she renewed her grip the slightest, fingers reaching farther. With a slight push, two fingers broke the lining and the seal was broken with a low hiss. 

“ _Oooooooh_ when did you have the time to shave?” 

The music suddenly swelled, loud enough to drown out any answer he might have given her. He could feel the beat pounding from beneath his feet, shaking in his chest as the lights in the room rose suddenly before falling dark. It was made all the louder by Xi’an’s fingers creeping along his jaw, and the DJ’s garbled announcement masked her whine of disapproval as he snatched her hand away from his neck and forced it back to her side. 

In that very same instant the bartenders all vanished– even the one with the silver hair– before reappearing on the marble countertops to thunderous applause. It seemed this gimmick was a house favorite, and as he followed a pair of slender legs up, up, _up_ with a backwards tilt of his head, it wasn’t difficult to see why. 

“Are you watching that little minx?” The sound of Xi’an’s sharp tone brought him back, but he spared her a side glance before his full focus returned to the bartender before him.

That same silver-haired girl that had served him his tequila moved in perfect time to the music, hands tracing the same path along her curves as his eyes. With every flash of light, she’d twisted herself an entirely new, interesting way; he wondered idly where the markings on her legs – thick bands of black that he imagined were sinfully soft to the touch – began, and where the latex of her boots ended. 

Unfortunately, he never got the chance to figure it out. Xi’an managed to worm a hand between them, pinching between the joints in his armor to get his attention. 

“What if I am?” 

Even despite the thrum of the music, he could practically _hear_ Xi’an plotting her next move before she made it, turning the wicked idea over in her head once, twice, three times before she reached out. Before he could stop her, she had one hand wrapped around the bottle of tequila, and the other around the bartender’s ankle. 

All it took was a single tug. 

A single tug and the bartender was flat on her back, limbs flailing as she struggled to orient herself in the midst of all the smoke and lights. Glasses crashed all around them, no doubt slicing into the backs of the bartender’s once perfect legs as she pressed herself up. Xi’an cackled with delight in his lap as she wrapped her lips around the straw and sucked noisily. 

“Not quite the little graceful loth-cat now, are ya, sourpuss?” 

The bartender’s teeth glittered with every pass of the strobe, but it wasn’t the menacing point of her fangs he was worried about; it was the handful of glass shards she was collecting behind her back. If looks were anything to go by, there was murder written on the bartender’s face and knowing exactly the way Xi’an operated, there was only one course of action that seemed reasonable.

Din grabbed Xi’an by the arm and shoved her off his lap. She clattered to the floor with such force that she collided into the man sitting next to them, his barstool teetering easily onto its side. It was like a damn ripple effect, one toppling onto the other in a long line with each flicker of the lights around them. 

_Fuck._

Before he could watch the last of the patrons fall at the other end, the silver hair bartend came flying off of the counter. The broken glass in her palm gleamed in the neon strobe lights and he instinctively reached out for her. His hand locked itself tight around her upper arm, stopping her from diving down to Xi’an, still writhing on the floor. It soon devolved into a tug-of-war; despite how lithe she appeared, she still managed to yank him free of his seat, slashing desperately in Xi’an’s direction as she inched closer. Din hauled her back hard enough to send them both toppling down to the floor and _oh fuck_ —

— perhaps he noticed the gleam in her eyes first, that adrenaline-driven state of _nothingness_ , or perhaps it was simply the sparks from the shard slicing over the left pauldron. There wasn’t a trace left of that calm, collected aura she’d possessed while serving them mere moments ago; she was pure chaos— a whirlwind unlike any other and for a flashing moment, the world around him seemed to slow down. There was something— _something_ about her that struck a chord of recognition within him; perhaps it was the look in her eyes or the curve of her lips or the air around her– violent, disturbed, much like Xi’an. 

She sliced through the air a second time, this time aiming higher and he caught her wrist right before the shard would’ve given him a second shave, grip bearing down hard enough to make bone rub against bone. 

Her mouth fell open but he couldn’t hear a sound pass her lips. Her eyebrows knit together and she yelped as the glass shard fell from her bloodied palm. The lights still flashed to the beating of the music and he felt her shift— her hand almost desperately clawing over his before the lights flashed again. 

Perhaps it was her eyes that he recognized– one blue, one green. 

She continued to try to pry her fingers out from between his, but it was a fruitless effort until she jabbed him hard in the groin, jerking her knee up _hard_ between his legs. 

_Damn._

_Fuck. Everything._

_Holy fucking maker._

“ _Fuck you,_ Mando, and _fuck_ your stupid _fucking_ girlfriend.” 

In the time it took for him to recover, she’d already wrenched herself free of his grasp. He knew that Xi’an would be waiting for her, having been afforded the advantage of his temporary distraction, and his stomach sank as he heard the pair hit the ground again. 

When the overhead lights flickered on, drowning the seedy cantina in their luminescent glow, everything was red. _Everything._ The bartender’s silvery hair, Xi’an’s hands, the floor, the barstools… it was all coated in a fine sheen of _red._ Patrons scrambled to escape being tainted by it, gathering their jackets and their drinks as they crowded around them in a semi-circle. Tufts of blonde were fluttering around them, clinging to Xi’an’s bloodied fingers as she ripped the hair from the bartender’s head by the handful. 

Din could barely make out the tops of the Gamorrean bouncers’ heads as they weaved their way through the gathering crowd. They were moving too slow, he feared, far too slow, given the way Xi’an had her hands wrapped around the bartender’s slender throat. Again and again, she dashed her opponent’s head against the ground as she laughed, insult after insult spilling from her lips. For all her might, though, the little bartender just _wouldn’t_ give up. 

A sickening crunch earned a groan of disgust from the bystanders, and for a moment, Din worried it had been the bartender’s head cracking wide open; he was surprised at the relief that flooded through him when he realized, based on the shriek alone, that it was not her head, but rather, Xi’an’s very broken nose. 

Two settings, he remembered, rough and rougher. There would never be enough for her. 

With a growl, Din wrapped his hands around Xi’an’s arms, hauling her up and away from the ground. He shoved her up against the bar, bending her backwards over the countertop when he leaned over her. 

“That’s enough.” 

“I like it—” Xi’an panted and smiled wickedly, blood pouring from her nose and through her teeth. “When you’re rough with me.” 

Din cast a look over his shoulder, watching as patrons helped peel the bartender up and away from the bloody mess she’d made on the floor. Her dress hung from her shoulder, and as she limped over to plant herself on a stool, he realized that she must have twisted her ankle when he’d pulled her down to the floor. Guilt washed over him.

He remembered a girl of no more than four wobbling atop a stool beside him, all wild hair and wide smiles. She had two different colored eyes: one blue. One green. 

_“What’s it like, having a metal head?”_

Not much had changed in the years that had stretched between them. She was still as fearless as she’d been as a child, though she still seemed so _small._ She trembled as she spat blood onto the ground, fisting a bloodied hand in her hair as though taking stock of what remained. 

A whistle cut through the chaos, quick and shrill. Din jerked his head back, recognizing Ran at once. He held out his hands in a disappointed gesture. “Mando, I thought you could keep the shackles on your hellcat— what the hell have you two misfits unleashed?”

“She’s not my fucking responsibility.” 

Xi’an chuckled, still clutching the bridge of her nose. 

“That’s not what you said the other night.” 

Ran huffed and shook his head, “Look, what the two of you do in your bunk is your business, but from now on, either put a leash on it or cut it out. Now we’ve got to think of somewhere else to celebrate.” 

As if right on cue, another man came stalking out of the back, sleeves of his suit rolled up and a briefcase in hand. Din didn’t need to know him to be entirely certain that he was the club’s owner and their point of contact for their last job. He wore a steely scowl, the perfect compliment to the jagged scar that ran over his left eye.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Ran,” he muttered, shoving the briefcase into Ran’s outstretched hand. “But you’ll forgive me if I have some business of my own to handle now?” 

“I most certainly will,” Ran’s answering grin turned Din’s stomach. He stepped aside to allow the stranger to pass, gesturing for them to follow as he made for the door. 

Xi’an gave him a wink as she raised her hand to lick the bartender’s blood from her fingers, breaking out in a poisonous laugh when he looked away. “How much do you need to drink before you love me?” she asked as she slithered closer, hand coming to sneak a place on his elbow. 

“Enough to die of alcohol poisoning,” Din jerked his arm away. 

He couldn’t help but hold the bartender’s gaze as they passed her by, her own fear betraying her when her boss shouted after her. 

“Izaria! You’re done for the night. Pack your shit and go home.” 


	3. PROLOGUE | The Lady in Silk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: We just wanted to add a quick trigger warning here for implied drug use. Please be safe friends!  
> Much like the first two chapters, this is part THREE of a three part prologue set approximately two years before the start of the series.

The sky was an angry bruise beyond the window glass. Purple clouds hung low, its color fading fast with the dying of the light. For one half of the city, the last touch from the binary suns was the final call to punch out for the day and head home, but to the other half, the cold shill of the birthing night was the wind beneath their wings that carried them to the dancefloor. 

To call Izaria’s apartment an organized mess would have been an overstatement. Her wardrobe had scattered itself horizontal on the floor, garments lumped together in small islands of glitter and black. A mountain of dirty dishes had formed, balanced precariously atop each other as remnants of last night’s afterparty littered around her countertops. At least this time she’d only woken up to mess and not strangers; she didn’t really have the time to corral a bunch of hungover freaks out of her house that evening, considering she was already running late.

“Eugh, I don’t even _like_ whiskey.”

She could taste the remnants of it on her breath as she stumbled through her dimly lit bedroom, kicking up a shirt to wear from the ground. A fine sheen of dust shimmered atop her bedside table when it caught the last of the suns’ rays, but Izaria knew it was hardly evidence of her carelessness. Instead, it was the remnants of whatever spice she’d spent the last of her credits on.

She was glad she got the late shift. She hoped it would mean there were more customers around to pay for her mistakes. She wasn’t sure she could convince her contacts to procure her yet another identity to avoid having trouble finding housing, not anymore. 

She could feel her pulse throbbing behind her temples, each beat threatening to squeeze her eyes right out of their sockets. Water straight from the tap wasn’t enough to quell her thirst, pouring down her chin and soaking the fine cotton of the shirt she clutched, but it would have to do. Izaria didn’t doubt there would be a whole line of shots waiting to cure her headache when she got backstage. 

Only pausing to rummage through her bag to ensure her keys were accounted for and ensure her outfit wasn’t _too_ heinous, she ducked out the door. 

Metal stairs clanged noisily beneath her platform boots as she ran down each set, taking them two at a time. Tenants crowded the stairwell, likely seeking a little relief from the stifling heat of the day. Their children swung from the railings, laundry fluttering from the ceiling as she passed beneath it and headed out to the bustling street. 

A single flick of her hand was all it took to hail a skycab and then she was on her way through the megacity. The skyscrapers seemed to go on forever, reaching high into the night as if they were stretching for the sky. She’d called this rock home for two years now and in all that time, she’d never seen the stars-- not even on the clearest of nights, not with the way the light pollution ate greedily onto the sky. The sole reminder of the world beyond the heavens was the moon and tonight she was half, but still just as bright as she peeked over a dark cloud.

The cab driver said nothing until they pulled onto a stop, the purple from the club’s neon sign bleeding through the tinted windows. He glanced over his shoulder at her and she could tell from his gaze that he wasn’t looking her in the eye-- or anywhere close. 

“Do I get a discount for that?” 

The driver frowned, eyes finally darting up to meet hers. “For what?”

“There’s no such thing as a free show, pal.” 

He scoffed, muttering indignantly and throwing his hands about until she finally reached into her bag and dug out what credits she could find. With a sigh, Izaria tossed them up into the front seat, watching as they bounced off the windshield and onto the dashboard. “Keep the change, freak.” 

It probably wasn’t enough, but she didn’t stick around long enough for him to count. 

_Acid Rain_ was one of many bars that lined the streets of the city’s seedy Lower End, or so it had been dubbed by many of the planet’s more posh residents. If she’d been blindfolded and led into any club, she imagined she couldn’t tell one apart from the other. Same shit, different set of walls – it didn’t matter where in the galaxy she was, as long as they sold booze and sheltered criminals, every entertainment district was all the same to her. Still, even despite the permanent grub that seemed to settle into every corner of the place, _Acid Rain_ was perhaps the nicest place she’d ever been employed. 

There was already a line building up outside the club with figures from all walks of life. Some dressed sharp while others looked like they’d spent a fortnight in the same dirty rags. If there was a single common thread between them, it was that they were men. _Acid Rain_ was the kind of club that gave these dimwits a taste of something new, something _exotic_. Tonight, she supposed, she was all of the above. 

She kept her head down as she walked past the line, not altogether eager to see if there were any familiar faces. When she approached the arched entrance, the bouncer took a step to the side and dropped the rope, nodding once in a silent greeting. Throughout the ride, she’d been too transfixed by her throbbing head to notice her nerves. She hardly anticipated the thrill of spotting the poster hanging next to the entrance. Like a splash of cold water onto her face– it unhinged something in her to see her stage name written in big and bold and— 

“—sorry, no Mandalorians. Establishment policy.” 

She blinked once, snapping out of her daydream. She turned on her heel only to catch sight of the second bouncer of the night, arguing with a Mandalorian that’d been separated from the line of eager men. 

“Can you make an exception?” 

“Do I look like the type to make exceptions?” 

Everything about the Mandalorian seemed to be strung tight; from the way he squared his shoulders to the dangerous way he tilted his head at the bouncer’s retort. The thought of allowing a man like that to take out all his pent up frustrations on her sent a shiver down her spine. 

Surely _that_ would have taken the edge off of her mounting anxiety, ceding all control just to feel all of that cold armor pressed tight against her skin.

It would have been nothing, to take him by the hand and pull him through the crowd, an act as natural to her as dancing now. Perhaps she wouldn’t have even needed to; perhaps he would have followed her of his own volition, right back into the dressing rooms, meeting her in a shower stall before she’d had a chance to dress for the evening. His belt didn’t look too complicated. She was certain she could undo it with one hand as he shoved her against the wall, and she’d let him take whatever he needed, whatever he wanted because—

“Nej, sweetling, don’t tell me you’re giving my guest problems.” Izaria wasn’t aware she was speaking until the words were tumbling out of her mouth. She struggled to appear nonchalant, even as she rocked up on tip-toe to get a better look at the subject of her ill-advised fantasy. 

Nej glanced between her and the Mandalorian, one eyebrow quirked, painting the disbelief onto his features. “He’s with you?” 

“‘Course he is, baby,” she chirped, planting a kiss on his cheek. “Why else would he be here?” 

Nej huffed. “To cause trouble, what else do Mandalorians do?”

Izaria shifted her focus onto the man in question. He was the embodiment of trouble; the dents and scratches on his armor were a testament to the violence he was capable of and yet, there was _something_ about a man in a set of well worn durasteel. She liked the bite of it against her skin. She wondered idly if this stranger was as indulgent as the Mandalorian she’d entertained many months ago. 

They were nearly the same, as far as appearances went. Their armor sat proudly upon their broad chests, worn by both time and trial. Where the last helmeted stranger to share her bed– or rather, the back wall of an alley– had boasted plates of green, the Mandalorian stood before her wore a set of weathered red armor, one pauldron slightly dented and the other scarred by blasterfire. Still, Izaria imagined they would feel much the same when she held tightly to them, squabbling for purchase as he took her for all she was worth. 

“What, you think they aren’t still just men under all that metal?” she replied and for a second, she was convinced that the Mandalorian was staring right back at her through that black visor, “let him in. All he wants to do is watch the show.” 

Nej shook his head but stepped aside, waving the Mandalorian along. “Fine. But it’s your sweet little ass if he causes trouble.” 

“He won’t,” Iz sang over her shoulder as she gestured for the Mandalorian to follow. “He promises.” 

If promises could be made by merely nodding, the Mandalorian did just that.

“Thank you,” the Mandalorian said once they were out of earshot. 

Izaria drew all of her hair over her shoulder as she turned to look at him. 

“No need to thank me, handsome,” she patted his chest twice. “Just tip me well. Consider it the cost of doing business, since that’s what I assume you were so desperate to get in for.” 

The Mandalorian hummed in reply.

“Glad we’re in agreement. You know where to find me.” 

With a wink and a smile, she left the Mandalorian to his own devices. She wondered if it was written somewhere in their creed that they were meant to be men of few words; it certainly aided their mystique, not to mention their appeal. It was so much easier to bear a man’s company when he wasn’t constantly fogging the room with his mindless drivel. 

“There she is!” 

A chorus of squeals greeted her as she pushed through a swinging door on the back wall, the heady darkness of the club lighting giving way to the luminescent glow of overhead lamps. Girls lined every corner of the room in various states of dress – many with bags under their eyes the same as Izaria, bleary from the evening prior but compelled to keep showing up out of a desire to keep a roof over their heads. 

“The lady of the hour,” a reedy arm wrapped around her from behind. She recognized the flowery scent of her friend Verse instantly. “How’s it feel to be running the show tonight?” 

Izaria reached back, running her fingers affectionately over Verse’s lekku just to hear her purr. 

“Can’t tell if it’s the hangover or the nerves turning my stomach.” 

“Don’t be silly, silly,” piped a human girl, Amara, from her perch on the vanity. Powder fluttered down from the brush she was tapping on her compact, settling into the crevices of her black dress. “You must have practiced about a hundred thousand times yesterday. Bet you could do your routine in your sleep.” 

Izaria could _hear_ Verse’s grin. “She’s certainly capable of some acrobatics in bed.” 

Her ears grew hot and she ducked out of the twi’lek’s grasp, dumping her bag on the ground. With a sharp tug, the padlock on her locker gave, its combination long since rendered pointless by years of overuse. Rooting through layers of feathers and fabric, she dug out a simple black bodysuit. She tried to shake the glitter out, but to no avail. It seemed a pointless effort, anyways, when she’d still end up covered in the stuff before the night was out. 

As annoying and pervasive as the stuff was, she liked to wake up with it on her skin. It was yet another reminder that despite the dysfunction of it all, she’d found a makeshift family in the women that crowded around her. They’d taught her everything, from how to hustle a man with more credits than sense to dancing. She owed everything she was to them. Sometimes, they were the only thing keeping her afloat when she was beginning to feel a little too much like an island. 

It didn’t mean she trusted them. Izaria loved them, but she’d learned her lesson about trust. No one on the Outer Rim really trusted each other unless they were really, _really_ kriffing stupid.

The routine of dressing was a small comfort to her despite the flutter of nervous energy that seemed to work its way through her very bones. Her hands shook as she pinched color into her cheeks, fingers tripping over one another as she laced her boots and braided her hair. The clamor of her coworkers and the bar on the other side of the wall faded into a numb sort of silence as the hour of reckoning drew nearer. 

The quiet seemed to follow her even as she slid back into the crowded nightclub. The music pulsed in perfect time to her heart, rattling against her ribs with each beat. The night was still so young, and yet the air was already heady, thick with smoke and sweat and _sin_. It all made her feel so terribly alive. 

“And now, ladies and gentlemen – and _all_ those in between – you’ve seen the sun set but it’s time for it to rise again! Please welcome our one and only Solara to the stage!” 

Solara was an _absurd_ name, as Verse and Amara has once pointed out, particularly for a girl with a headful of moon-pale hair, but Izaria loved the absurd. To be _Solara_ long after the sun set made the pain of an unfamiliar name easier to bear; no matter where she was dancing, it had been the one thing that had stayed consistent for her these past few years 

Only a few heads turned as Izaria climbed the stairs, and while she imagined she should have felt indignant at such a non-reaction, she was secretly relieved. It allowed her the space to pretend that it was just her and the artificial rain that fell in sheets on either side of the stage. The floor was slick and cool to the touch as she bent at the waist, sliding onto her hands and knees as she waited for her music to begin. 

Back arched like a loth-cat, Izaria leaned into her palms and flexed, the damp tile beneath her knees aiding her as she slid back. Errant droplets of water splashed all around her as she tossed her head back to find that the room was suddenly rapt; she was the sun, and the bass was her gravity, pulling patrons in until they had no choice but to watch. 

A grin crept slowly across her face as she reached up, searching blindly for the swaths of silk she was certain had descended from above. They wrapped around her wrists easily, as familiar as a lover’s caress; she’d certainly bear similar bruises by the time she was finished.

With a single tug, she had pulled herself upright, feet swinging gracefully out from beneath her. From there, it was an act as familiar as breathing – though the further she wound herself from the ground, the more she was reminded of her own fragility. The thrill kept her from getting too caught up in the knowledge that hundreds of eyes were now trained on her. She was certain the weight of them would have pulled her straight down. 

Izaria could barely make out their faces as she spread her silk wrapped legs into a split, straining against the pull of the earth below to keep herself upright. She wasn’t even searching for anyone in particular, not until the gleam of light off of a polished metal helmet caught her eye. 

_The Mandalorian._

If he wasn’t looking at her, he was a fool, but even from a distance, she was almost certain he was. Given the tilt of his head, she wondered if she hadn’t broken his concentration, distracted him from whatever mission he’d been so desperate to complete. The mere thought was enough to make her _throb_ with want. 

She’d all but made up her mind about dragging him somewhere dark and cool and _blissfully_ private when a sudden shriek from the crowd snapped her out of her reverie. 

All at once, the club seemed to descend into a madness. A body dropped to the ground and tables were soon overturned, bright streaks of blaster fire following suit. It was all Izaria could do to disentangle herself from the silk, unraveling herself slowly, swimming back to the ground by throwing her weight into a downwards tumble. 

She saved herself only narrowly from being charged headfirst by a devaronian, the spindly outcroppings of his horns brushing only inches from her head as she yanked herself back up with a yelp. Damp as the silks were, however, she couldn’t maintain her hold long, sliding back down until she was hanging, headfirst, in front of the Mandalorian himself. 

His shoulders heaved, a gun fitted easily into the palm of his hand. He could have dodged her if he wanted to, pushed right through her like she was a curtain, but he stopped, and he _stared_ , and she was powerless to do anything but stare _right back._

It was only when he flinched that she realized that she was about to lose him – almost as quickly as she would lose her job, she imagined.

“Nononono— _no_ , stop right there.” She planted a firm hand on his chest and that _idiot_ actually stopped dead in his tracks and for a moment, all she could feel was that cold piece of steel meet the palm of her hand by each breath he took. He tilted his head slightly to the side like a stupid, stupid puppy and— _ugh._

She punched him in the chest. 

_Kriffing Mandalorians._

The moron didn’t even budge. Strung up by silks, she couldn’t even afford herself the momentum to do any damage besides bruising her own knuckles, swinging lamely in front of him as a result of her rage. She watched as her reflection wavered back and forth in the menacing cut of his visor, a mirror as dark and foreboding as a black hole. It seemed to swallow every detail except for one. 

She could see her eyes– one blue, one green and they fucking _stung_ with angry tears.

“Drop every credit you’ve got right now.” She hated the waver in her own voice, just as she hated the way those tears now threatened to spill, gathering on her lashes every time she tried to furiously blink them away. “You _fucking_ owe me.” 

“I don’t have any.” The Mandalorian said it like it was nothing; he didn’t sound apologetic or remorseful, it was like the default answer from a droid– as blank and emotionless as that stupid, _stupid_ bucket. Perhaps rumours were true.

Perhaps the heart of a Mandalorian was as cold as their armor. 

The Mandalorian passed her and all she could feel was the rough surface of the armor plate slide over her fingertips as he disappeared, resuming the hunt for whoever he was after. In a strange way, it felt as if he muted the world with his departure; though clubbers and employees alike tripped over themselves in their scramble to escape, she heard nothing. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw flashes of blasterfire– one, two, three quick bursts of lasers flying at _someone._

Hopefully at that damn Mandalorian.

She sucked in a shaky breath. Not even a fourth exchange of fire was enough to break her composure. What would a blaster to the gut be in comparison to starving on the streets? She’d worked her ass off to make it this far; to live in that messy apartment that she called home; to create some kind of semblance of normal and now…

Now it was gone. 

Nej was a turncoat, a fucking rat and then his words would ring true before the night was up; it _would_ be her ass on the line for waving that Mandalorians inside. And would he care? There’d be another pretty little thing for him to harass in a week’s time. 

She slowly lowered herself to the ground and unwrapped herself from the soft silk before rubbing the ache from her wrists. She could still feel the ghostly chill from his armor lingering in the tips of her fingers. 

If there was anything she’d gotten good at, it was putting her faith in the wrong people. Only a fool would be so persistent in the face of repeated disappointment. And yet there she was.

In many ways, the chaos unfolding around her felt like the natural order of things. The girls she'd begun to call her family had spoken dreamily of destiny, and while perhaps their words had held some truth, Izaria wondered if there was a predetermined path for everyone. 

If that was the case, she was confident that hers was rocky, uneven and would lead her straight off the edge of a cliff. 

Life wasn't supposed to be fair. She'd already learned that lesson a dozen times over since she’d fled Ubiri all those years ago, but this just seemed cruel. 

Cruel, but not unusual. She’d walked this same road so many times that it was nothing to her to march through the madness and back to the dressing room. She packed her bag and returned home to drink until the suns had risen, wondering if she’d even survive long enough to find another job.

It was an act as familiar as breathing.


End file.
